


Lazaretto Poveglia

by Doppio_Coffee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Bubonic Plague, Death, Everybody Dies, Other, Plague, Poveglia, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29029248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doppio_Coffee/pseuds/Doppio_Coffee
Summary: Lights of a distant shore.
Kudos: 1





	Lazaretto Poveglia

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story I’m transferring over from my Wattpad Account

October 8, 1794

I was taken from my shop early this morning. People in masks with a bird-like facade took me and a small smattering of people across the venician lagoon to a small island, with a small hospital. I don't know why I was taken, some people spoke of the plague, of malaise, of the night air.  
I suppose I am lucky, having no family and no kin. I worked alone, a merchant of low birth and spirits. The boat ride has been rough, and I am surrounded by people, grotesque in appearance and nature, ill and dying. I am strong and healthy and do not understand why I am among them. I will write when I can, though I fear my charcoal is wearing out.

October 9, 1794

Good morning, to myself I suppose. I rested uneasily last night. There are so many people here, the dregs of a clean society. I learned why I was brought here. People caught word of my apprenticeship for a doctor in Prussia in my youth. I was brought here to be a doctor to those with the Plague. I too am wearing the bird-like mask, it is so hard to breathe in. I fear I must cut this short, as I have much to learn. If I get away for a bit, I will explore the island. I will treat this as a holiday, albeit, an odd one.

October 12, 1794

I've been treating people all morning and through the last two nights. This island is beautiful and would be even prettier if the sun would come out. It's been surprisingly cold, though maybe that is just in my head. Fevers are quite bad for many, though I suppose the cooler nights help. I was told October is “Plague Season” whatever that means. I've only been here five days, but it is exhausting in spirit and body. I am beginning to feel so trapped here, the doctors say I haven't seen the worst yet, it terrifies me.  
Three days feels more like three years, patient after patient. The other doctor’s talk of death, I have not seen death, not yet. I must go now, I don't want to get caught.

October 29, 1794

I can scarcely remember how many days I’ve been in this Lazzarotto. I've seen death now, these days I have been gone. A doctor fell ill a few days ago, I sit here, writing this as I tend to his fever, and I can not help but feel a deep fear. I worry he will die, grotesque and alone, like the people from the boat all that time ago.   
I write this as people around me die. I think often of my shop at home, of the sunny venician streets and cobbled roads and of laughing people. No one laughs here, and there is no alcohol. Nobody laughs. I have not felt warmth in so long. I just want a hug, someone to hold my hand. Touch is forbidden, as not to spread the illness. I find it hard to sleep here, someone is always up, dying. No one has the pleasure of dying in their sleep. I think I will get back to work now, I don’t know when I can write again, I wish I was home. 

November 15, 1794

I am tired of blood, why must there be so much blood? I can’t avoid it here, it seems to be in the very air, sticky and visceral. This island was born of blood, I feel. This illness has so much blood, the victims are so pale, so sick. I do all I can to ease their pain, I touch their faces with my hands, I tell them that they are loved. I was caned for this, the head doctor brought his cane down upon my back. This was a week ago, and the welts have not healed.  
I write this on the night of November the 15th. The head doctor is dead. I held his un-masked face in my hands and wept, for I loved him.

November 22, 1794

I believe I have caught a cold, a minor one, I felt as well as one could here just a few days ago. I've been waiting for the ferries to bring more people across the water, just to see the remnants of civilization in their eyes. I mourn for them.

December 30, 1794

I and the remaining doctors celebrated with a bottle of wine split between us. It was the first bit of joy I’ve felt in so long. We could see the lights of the city, and I cried, for I could not be there. My tears blurred the lights, so I drank more wine and wiped the tears from this page, the paper already becoming soft and worn.  
We stayed for hours on that small beach, watching the lights across the water, watching the reflections upon the water. I waited for the new year with a heavy heart, heavier mind. When I sleep tonight, I will dream of home.

January 1, 1795

I was sick all night, the wine did not agree with me. I was permitted to stay in bed today. I fear to look in the sick bucket, I fear what I will see, so I stare at the brick wall, I think about home, I wish I was home. I do not remember fever being a symptom of too much wine, and I fear the worst.  
I’ve been laying here all day, but I am so tired. The doctor’s whisper, I hear their voices when they are not there, a constant symphony of whispers muffled through the mind. They keep me company once the candle burns to a stub, a pile of ash and wax.  
I am writing once again, somewhere between twilight and dawn. There is blood on my bedsheets, I cried for the doctors, I am covered in sweat. I hope I will feel better once I wake once more.

January 5, 1795

I have not gotten better, I’ve only gotten worse. The fever has gotten worse, and I fear the worst. I am writing this with shaking hands, with a fevered mind. The doctor’s whispers grow louder, but everything else is silent.

1795

I’ve been bedridden for so long, I don’t remember the date. All I see are the bird masks, the black leather, the taste of bile. The vomit in the bucket is red, tinged with blood, with viscera. My mind seems to be slipping away, I can no longer write, despite the undeniable truth that I am. My hands shake too much to bear these days, and the doctors whisper, and the wind whispers. I don’t know how much longer I will last.

January 10, 1795

A kind doctor told me what day it is. I am writing this from the overgrown courtyard, to try to get some sun. My fever broke for an hour today, and I do not yet feel feverish and Ill. I will cherish this hour, I will cherish this sun.   
I wish I was writing to someone, anyone. I am so tired of talking to myself here. I have been released of my duties as doctor, I am now just like the rest of the bodies here. Cold and still. I try to rest when I can to get some sleep and try to get better, to no avail. This entry is long, pleasing to see it fill the page.   
I could write forever, all my empty thoughts and unanswered prayers. One of the doctors taught me Latin, they have been dead for well over a week. 

January 12, 1795

I fear the coming of the end, I refuse to open my eyes except to write. I no longer wish to see my pallid body this way, twisted, disgusting. I bleed so much, I want to bleed until there is nothing left within, nothing left to feel. The floors are sticky and red with blood, my blood. The doctors tend to me no longer, and I scream no longer. I suffer silently for the sake of those with hope. I will not die in Venice, I will die here, alone. I think I must say goodbye, goodbye to home and laughter. Goodbye to sun. Goodbye to Venice. Goodbye to Poveglia.


End file.
